


That's How We Have Our Fun

by JerseyGirl324



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: BDSM, Discipline, Dom/sub, Dominance, Enemas, Humiliation, Implied Consent, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Over the Knee, Punishment, Spanking, Submission, Year That Never Was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 17:49:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1950525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JerseyGirl324/pseuds/JerseyGirl324
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master teaches the Doctor a lesson in humility.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's How We Have Our Fun

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [My Sins Are All I Have](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1232491). While not strictly necessary, I recommend reading that one first because there are many references that may not be understood without knowing the broader context. Also be aware that this contains a lengthy (but not overly graphic) description of an enema, which I realize may be uncomfortable or disgusting to some readers.

The Doctor sighs and closes his eyes as rivulets of warm water trickle down his back. They run over fading welts of red and purple, tracing a path along the curve of his spine before splashing into the large bathtub like a stream meeting the sea. The deepest wounds have scarred over and begun to heal; after an agonizing few days, he is thankful his convalescence will soon be complete.

“Feel good?” the Master inquires softly.

“Mmm hmm,” the Doctor purrs in reply.

The Master is balancing on the edge of the tub, starched white shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows and a sponge in one hand. His tie is draped over his shoulder to keep it dry as he bathes every inch of the Doctor with diligent care. He’s been nothing but attentive since their recent session, forbidding the injured Time Lord from lifting a finger during recovery. He loves it when his Doctor depends on him so completely.

The Doctor tilts his head back as the Master teasingly runs the sponge over his Adam’s apple and along the hollow of his throat. His whole body shudders at the sensual touch. The sponge travels lower, lathering his pale chest with soapsuds before dipping below the waterline to bring a sudden flush to his cheeks. The Doctor moans at the familiar intimacy and the Master can’t help but chuckle as he continues the thorough cleansing.

“You’re beautiful, Doctor,” he breathes reverently.

The Master’s free hand traces the scars left by the whip’s tail and he allows himself a tiny smile of pride at his handiwork. The Doctor did his penance well; he certainly wasn’t perfect, but his composure and endurance were impressive. And as for the mistakes, the Master will of course address those in due time. He doesn’t want to push his repentant Doctor too far just yet.

“This is nice,” the Doctor remarks, a shy smile playing at his lips. That lovely expression is almost enough to make the Master hard. But no, it’s still too soon. “I’ve missed you, Master.”

“I know,” the Master replies. “And that’s why I won’t let you leave this time.”

The Doctor nods as the Master squeezes a dollop of shampoo into his palm and begins to lather his tousled brown hair. He shuts his eyes and savours the relaxing touch of the Master’s fingertips as they expertly massage his scalp with just the right amount of pressure. And then the Master slides into his mind, slowly at first, transmitting feelings of strength and security into the deepest recesses of his psyche.

The Doctor allows his fellow Time Lord entry, revels in the psychic link, until they are both enveloped in a cocoon of shared emotions. It’s like the Master is holding him tight against the guilt of his past choices, keeping him safe from the judgment and condemnation of outsiders.

_I am your judge, Doctor. No one else has that right…_

But the Doctor also picks up something else: a dark undercurrent running through the Master’s mind, pathological obsession and a hunger for control borne along on the beat of the drums. He is shocked to discover that he can hear them too—a distinct rhythm of four repeated over and over again. The Master can’t hide his demons. Not when their thoughts and minds are entwined in the most intimate way imaginable. The Doctor doesn’t recoil at this new revelation; he doesn’t attempt to reinstate his own mental barriers. He instead reaches out to the Master as he has always done:

_Let me help you._

_No, Doctor. I won’t be one of your little pets._

_Please…_

A splash of water over the head returns the Doctor to the physical realm as the sudsy lather is rinsed from his hair. The psychic connection is lost; there is nothing more the Doctor can do unless the Master is willing. And he’s always been stubborn.

The Master is careful to shield the Doctor’s eyes from the cascading water, placing a palm against his forehead and tilting it back as the soapsuds flow into the bathtub. Once the last remnants are washed away, he pulls out the drain plug and briefly turns his attention to covering the bathroom floor with towels.

The Master then extends a hand to help the Doctor out of the tub and onto the covered tile. He wraps him in a plush towel and begins to dry him off with the same methodical care he exercised during the bath. The Doctor watches in silent awe as the Master gracefully drops to his knees to soak up any lingering drops of moisture, lifting first one foot and then the other to dry between his toes. He then rises to plant a fleeting kiss on the Doctor’s forehead.

“Sit down on the ledge,” he whispers gently.

The Doctor waits while the Master heads to the vanity and begins to sort through its contents. He soon removes a kit that contains a black rubber bag, a length of tubing, a plastic clamp, and a bulbous object that resembles a plug. He also hides a tiny bottle of petroleum jelly in his shirt pocket. The Master quickly assembles the equipment and turns on the tap, allowing hot water to run over a bar of soap and into the bag. He can feel the Doctor’s eyes on him as he waits for the bag to expand to its full two-litre capacity.

“What’s that?” the Doctor asks, quirking an eyebrow at the unfamiliar apparatus.

“It’s something your precious humans employ for a number of different… _purposes_ ,” the Master remarks coyly. “They do make _some_ things I find interesting.”

“Yes I know, but what’s it _for_?” the Doctor presses in exasperation.

“You forgot your place the other day,” the Master offers by way of explanation. “I know it was hard on you. I know you needed this time to recover. But now you need to be disciplined for that little outburst.”

“But you said you forgave me!”

“Forgiveness doesn’t obviate the need for punishment, Doctor,” the Master notes with a smirk. “You still must be taught a _lesson_.”

The Doctor swallows hard and drops his gaze as the Master approaches. The strange black bag is suspended from a hook on the wall, allowing the attached hose to dangle along the side of the tub. The Master neatly coils the extra length off to one side before resuming his place on the marble ledge. The Doctor is baffled by the proceedings, but he knows from experience that the Master’s creativity regularly encompasses the sadistic and generally unpleasant. He has no reason to believe this occasion will be any different. Although there are times when his methods are so wonderfully _innovative_ …

“Lie across my lap,” the Master instructs curtly.

The Doctor raises his eyes and stares at him in disbelief. He hasn’t been in _that_ position since the Academy, when Koschei would chastise him for not being studious enough. It was new at the time, had made him feel so horribly embarrassed, but his boyhood friend quickly moved on to more intense methods of discipline. Why would the Master now decide to resurrect this particular specter of their past?

“What am I, a _child_?” he exclaims indignantly.

“I won’t ask you again,” the Master warns, patting his lap in annoyance. The drums are pounding in his head; there are only a few things that will give him a respite from the noise. He has little patience for the Doctor’s petulant attitude—and even less for disobedience.

The Doctor hesitates for only a moment longer before acquiescing to the command. He reluctantly bends over and lowers himself onto the Master’s lap, bracing as best he can on the narrow ledge. He’s barely had time to register the shame of it all when the first blistering smack lands across his arsecheeks. The Doctor yelps in pain and surprise, squirming against the soft wool of the Master’s trousers. The Master expediently presses an arm into his back to keep him in position as the blows continue at a brisk pace, four on each side, again and again with enough cruel bite to make the tears flow. The Doctor can only whimper miserably and wriggle across his tormentor’s lap as his bare bottom is unceremoniously turned a glowing shade of red.

“ _Stay still_!” the Master hisses down to him.

“Ko-Koschei,” the Doctor stammers before he can catch himself, “w-what is this for?” Their old routine never used to be about physical pain, only humiliation, and he can’t understand why the Master would now use it as a means to hurt him.

“I’ll let that negligent disrespect slide,” the other Time Lord sneers, momentarily pausing the spanking. “But you need to remember what it means to humble yourself before your Master.”

“I-I don’t understand…”

“You put yourself in my hands because you crave absolution,” the Master reminds him pointedly. “I will care for you, be the judge of your needs, but I will also discipline you when you fail to show me the proper deference. Understand?”

“Yes,” the Doctor replies with quiet resignation.

“Yes, _what_?”

“Yes, Master.”

The Master gives his warmed arse an indulgent pat before administering yet another round of bruising open-handed slaps. This time he alternates between the fleshy part of the Doctor’s bottom and the backs of his thighs; his old friend won’t be sitting comfortably for quite some time. The Doctor can only bite his lip in a stoic effort to withstand the force of the blows. The shame of being put over the knee like a misbehaving schoolboy floods his consciousness, effortlessly cutting through the searing pain of the Master’s chastisement. It seemed like a game back then—they had been young after all—but this is something else entirely. All shreds of playful innocence are gone, and the Master won’t allow him to find any comfort in memory.

When the Doctor first sought to do penance at the Master’s hands, he wilfully blinded himself to what that might entail. He wanted to believe he could still see Koschei behind the Master’s fiery eyes. But his friend has changed. The Master said he wouldn’t stop. It was meant to be a final warning, his last chance to put the brakes on; but in that charged moment, the Doctor hadn’t realized that unconditional submission would mean the loss of his own will. He now sees with chilling clarity that the Master has no intention of ever relinquishing that control. He will pay for his sins—on the Master’s terms—for as long as the other Time Lord can manage to keep him.

Hot tears stream down the Doctor’s cheeks, and he isn’t sure whether it’s the mental reckoning or the physical pain that beckons them forth with such urgency. He merely tries to remain quiet and motionless as a seemingly endless succession of handprints is seared into his protruding bum. The Master is rarely moved to mercy by gratuitous displays of emotion. And so the Doctor does his best to hang on, just reaching the verge of breaking completely when the spanking comes to a sudden stop. The air is thick with apprehension and the lingering steam of the drained bath. He doesn’t dare breathe as he anxiously awaits the Master’s next move.

“It’s okay,” the Master reassures him gently. He strokes the Doctor’s back with paternal affection and runs a hand through his damp, disheveled hair. “Calm down. You’ll want to be entirely relaxed for this next part…”

The Doctor’s hazy brain doesn’t have time to process the instructions before the Master abruptly spreads his blazing arsecheeks with the thumb and forefinger of one hand. He winces at the sharp pain of having them touched. The Master holds him open and massages the tight hole with the tip of a finger, all the while whispering _ssshhhh_. When the Doctor is sufficiently relaxed, he removes the bottle of jelly from his pocket and picks up the waiting nozzle and hose. The Master applies a thin coat of lubrication to the tip—just enough to get the job done—and positions it against the Doctor’s opening. He hardly needs any preparation these days. The Doctor inhales sharply as the pear-shaped device instantly breaches the sphincter and anchors itself within him. This is going to be unlike anything he’s ever experienced before.

“Now then, Doctor,” the Master begins, “it’s time for you to learn some humility. This little procedure should serve as a reminder that your body is now under my _absolute_ control.”

The Master clicks open the tube’s clamp, allowing soapy water to flow freely from the black bag to the nozzle buried inside the Doctor’s arse. The Doctor groans as the warm liquid trickles into his body; he’s already accustomed to the Master finishing inside him during sex. This sensation is different, deeper and more consistent, strange but not immediately unpleasant. The Doctor takes deep breaths and tries to relax as the sudsy concoction fills his bowels. But the pressure on his expanding abdomen soon becomes uncomfortable, and he squirms across the Master’s lap in a futile attempt to alleviate the bloating.

“Master,” he pleads, “it’s too much…”

“My pretty Doctor, don’t you want to be squeaky clean for me?” the Master asks with an exaggerated pout. He knows the position is less than ideal for a first timer, but the view of that pert little arse is just too good to pass up.

The Doctor doesn’t get a chance to respond; the first bout of cramping hits him like a rogue wave, and he moans loudly as his distended stomach twists itself into agonizing knots.

“Master, _please…_ ”

“Well, since you asked so nicely…”

The Master clicks the clamp shut to momentarily stop the flow; the bag is still half full, and he wants to make sure the Doctor is able to take it all. It won’t do to force things along too quickly—although he does enjoy watching the Doctor squirm and beg for relief. Still, he clearly needs a little bit of help, and it would be needlessly cruel to deny him that small mercy.

“ _Breathe_ , Doctor,” the Master commands firmly, rubbing his lower back and ribcage in a circular motion to ease the bloating. “I’m not finished with you yet…”

“Please no more!” the Doctor implores in a panic. His face is as warm and red as his bum; he’s never been so humiliated. Fortunately, the Master’s ministrations relieve the worst of the cramping, and he tries to breathe deeply as instructed.

“Better?” the Master queries.

“Yes, Master.”

“Be thankful it’s only soap and water this time,” the Master remarks with a wry smile. “I could have mixed something a great deal more unpleasant.”

The Doctor whimpers at the sound of the clamp once again clicking open to release its devious liquid into his body. He wants desperately to relieve himself, although it’s apparent that he won’t be permitted to do so for the time being. The Doctor is mortified to have this most basic autonomy taken from him. It’s more degrading than any spanking. Finally, he hears the last dregs of water gurgling through the tube, and it seems the procedure is finished.

“Good boy,” the Master murmurs. “You took that like a brave little trooper!”

“M-Master…” the Doctor immediately chokes out, “I-I need to…”

“You need to _what_ , Doctor?”

“I need to use the toilet,” the Doctor manages through his shame.

“Oh no,” the Master chides, “you’re going to hold that until I give you permission to expel it. Ten minutes should be sufficient, I think.”

The Doctor whines in protest and the Master can’t help but laugh as he reaches up to remove the empty black bag from its hook. “Get up and walk over to those towels on the floor,” he orders, gingerly pushing the Doctor to his feet.

The Doctor waddles with arsecheeks clenched tight and the Master following directly behind with the bag held at waist level. He looks so ridiculous that the Master nearly breaks down in a fit of giggles right then and there. He somehow manages to keep his composure as the Doctor stands meekly on the towels and waits for instruction. His brown eyes are wide and he’s practically bouncing up and down from the strain of holding the soapy mixture. Oh, this is just _too good_!

“Lie on your back and keep breathing,” the Master directs calmly.

The Doctor lowers himself onto the towels and lifts his knees to his chest. The new position relieves most of the pressure on his abdomen and allows some of the gas to subside. Once he is settled, the Master slowly removes the nozzle and replaces it with a large retention plug. He then stands over the Doctor and pulls a silver stopwatch out of his trouser pocket. He gives the desperate Time Lord two minutes’ credit for changing positions—he doesn’t tell _him_ that of course—and promptly starts the clock.

“You better hold it,” he tells the Doctor, “or you’ll get another one that will be much worse.”

“I’m _tryiiing_ , Master…”

The response comes out whiny and more pathetic than the Doctor had intended. He fretfully shifts about to remain as comfortable as possible while holding the solution deep in his bowels. He doesn’t want to imagine the torturous concoctions the Master may have in mind should he fail to retain it. Each moment feels like an eternity as the Master hovers above with a smug expression on his face and the stopwatch in one hand. The Doctor is too embarrassed to meet his gaze; it might be considered a sign of disrespect in any event. So he stares up at the ceiling instead, the successive waves of cramping making it difficult to focus on anything but the misery.

“Time!” the Master announces suddenly, clicking the stopwatch with a theatrical flourish. “Now you may ask me again.”

“Master, may I _please_ use the toilet?”

“I’ll leave you to it,” the Master obliges, heading for the door while the Doctor frantically struggles to get back on his feet. He could stay and watch, of course, but decides to give the Doctor the courtesy of privacy for his first time.

“Thank me,” the Master prompts him. The Doctor may be uncomfortable, but really, is it so hard to remember basic manners?

“Thank you, Master.”

“And come find me when you’re finished,” the Master calls over his shoulder, briskly shutting the door on the unfolding spectacle.

The Master can make out an exquisite gasp of pain when the Doctor’s sore bottom finally hits the toilet seat; he smirks in satisfaction and walks off to pour himself a drink. He has no idea what kind of mood the Doctor will be in when he emerges from the bathroom, but isn’t that part of the excitement? The Master always enjoys the game. Wages of sin, that’s how they have their fun.

**Author's Note:**

> Last and final part of the story arc: [Some Wrong That I've Done](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3274580).


End file.
